Agency

95 Volunteer

When Conner said go, Manuela went over the upended couch like a sprinter coming off blocks, her arms outstretched for the door. It seemed to vanish, rather than open, into a coughing, retching, solidly packed realm of cursing men, their hands to their streaming eyes.

Capsicum, announced some brightly nerdy recall-module of Verity’s, her eyes and nostrils stinging painfully.

The seemingly solid mass of pepper-sprayed men around the container’s door had only been a few, she saw, plunging through them after Manuela.

“Move,” Conner urged, as one of the men clawed at the strap of the Muji bag, his hand bashed aside by a metallic blur she recognized as one of the drone’s arms, upraised, plowing out of the confusion on powered skates. “Virgil,” Conner said, flashing her a feed from above, of a black sedan, braking hard, at the curb in front of the alley. “Go!”

She did, reflexively managing to leap an attempted tackle, as she found the car in her actual field of vision and ran for it, past the side of the white van. Trying, through the start of her own capsicum tears, cheekbones and forehead now burning as well, to find Manuela.

The black car was in front of her, its right rear door open, Dixon getting out, black ball cap level with his eyebrows. Showing her his fist, thumb upraised. She veered left, to avoid one of the van’s open rear doors. As Manuela screamed, partially within the back of the van, a red-eyed man hauling her inside.

He yanked Manuela past him, farther into the truck, as Verity arrived. Verity lunged for her ankles, to pull her out, but then his gloved hands were around both her wrists.

A dark, dull, skintight gray, the gloves. “Thanks for volunteering,” he said, tightening his grip, as she looked straight into his blue eyes. “We’ve been looking for you too.” Those eyes widening then, in the instant before the silicone-coated manipulators plunged past her, on either side of her head, to seize him by the neck, his mouth forming a surprised O. She ducked her head as he was whipped out, over her, one of his shoes glancing off her left shoulder.

She grabbed Manuela’s nearest ankle with both hands and pulled, hard, losing her balance, falling, her head hitting something but not pavement. The Muji bag, she realized, its nylon against her cheek.

“Lady,” she heard Dixon say, “I’m not with them. I’m with Verity.” And suddenly was aware of the absolute quiet, aside from their voices. She turned her head, saw Dixon facing a crouched Manuela, his hands open, fingers spread.

“That’s Dixon,” Verity managed, having found her breath. “He’s okay.”

“Gonna help Verity,” Dixon said, calmly moving to do so.

“He’s with us,” Verity said to Manuela, as Dixon helped her up.

“You walk?” he asked, his arm around her shoulder.

“I think so,” Verity said.

“Car now,” Dixon said, “gotta go.”

“Come with us,” Verity said to Manuela, who’d straightened up now, her eyes no longer quite so wide.

When they reached the car, Verity looked back. Through the open rear doors of the van, she saw men piled, unmoving. Four of them, with the drone just then dropping another, she assumed the driver, over the passenger seats and onto the others. Behind the drone, above the van’s steering wheel, the windshield was webbed, as if from a single impact.

Turning back to the car, she found Manuela in the passenger seat behind Virgil. Dixon did that police thing as she got in beside her, his hand on her head so she didn’t bang it. “Conner,” she said, looking back again but not seeing the drone.

“He needs to clean up,” Virgil said, as Dixon shut her door, opened the one in front, got in, closed it.

“Where are we going?” Verity asked.

“Fremont,” he said. “Want to get there before the crowd gets more obvious.”

“Crowd?”

“Have to drive now,” he said, pulling away from the curb.